When she reappeared, he winked heartily at his amazed companions and settled to the second helping of ice cream.
At last the party came to an end, as all such joyous occasions must, and he found himself on the sidewalk, looking up once more at the now darkened parlor. Far up the street came the hooting and jeering of a gang—possibly his own—although the voices seemed older and strange, and the gate of the house next the apartment building had disappeared, leaving empty hinges as mute testimony that some band of witches had done their work thoroughly and well.
In response to his prolonged ring and joyous kicks on the home door, Mrs. Fletcher let him in. "Don't pound so hard, son," she cautioned. "We're not deaf."
"Might a' thought it was some Halloween gang if I didn't," he defended himself as he threw his hat on the nearest chair.
"Have a good time?" she queried.
"Did I?" The earnestness of his voice left little doubt as to his sentiments. "Did I? You just bet I did!"
The family always slept late on Sunday morning, but at that, John, worn out by the excitement of the preceding evening, stirred drowsily when his father appeared in the doorway.
"Come on, John; time to get up."
"Yes, dad," gazing at him with lackluster eyes. As Mr. Fletcher left, he turned his face promptly toward the wall and dropped off to sleep again.